


Fallen First, Serpent Second

by BlueBlend



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Look Crowley is a Soft Soul, M/M, Post-Canon, They're both very good boys and I love them, and Aziraphale realizes it...a little later than most perhaps, is this angst?, it's not his fault, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 10:18:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19766149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueBlend/pseuds/BlueBlend
Summary: "It was only by the grace of knowing someone who wore shades as dark as night for the last few millennia, that he recognized the minute tics to Crowley’s brows; eyeing the seat Aziraphale was in, before darting away and skittering towards the empty seats around him. "Another Crowley has a lot of feels and Aziraphale had adjusted to the feeling of his love, much like one would a leaking faucet. Until it overflows.





	Fallen First, Serpent Second

_[Disclaimer: I am neither claiming to own, or to have invented, any copyrighted characters or concepts in the below works. The work below is purely for entertainment purposes only and receives no profit. Credit is given to their respective owners, with many thanks for the creation of a work that brings so many fans together.]_

  
_______________________________________  
**Fallen First, Serpent Second**  
-  
_Last Edited: July 11th, 2019_  
___________________________________ 

No one talks about what happens after major events, usually. Everyone leaves out the clean-up, the put-togethers, the assembly of people crowding around after a big event wondering what’s next?

These things are less exciting, less of a spectacle, and generally much messier, and thus less fun to discuss.

After the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Aziraphale without a moped and his companion without his beloved car, both found themselves scrunched in a London bus.  
Without much conscious thought, the angel found himself sitting next to the widow, whether out of an age-old habit to take up the least room and not infringe upon others, or rather a desire to see the world mosey along as if it hadn’t just nearly ceased to exist less than an hour ago. 

Aziraphale barely thinks to look up, lost in a daze, before he realizes that his companion who had been stead-fastly behind him, _and oh, didn’t that seem to be true for more than just the past hour?_ , was lagging. 

Crowley’s gait, always awkwardly shuffing side to side, as if he’d never quite managed to stand right on two legs in these past six-thousand years, and what if he hadn’t? Aziraphale had not really thought to ask; did he perhaps feel comfortable in one form over the other? 

Aziraphale found his thoughts were clouded and it was as if they had all been brushed in homemade butter, but someone had forgotten to remove the clotted cream up top and now his thoughts were wandering and floating in chunks because Aziraphale had had Faith, certainly, and Hope, definitely, and a Belief in the Ineffable, always, but…  
But he had not realized until now that he didn’t quite expect to live past today.  
And yet, here he is.

_Here they are,_ he thinks, looking at this gangly fellow shuffling about hesitatingly, footwork reminiscent of their time in a Germanic church.  
It was only by the grace of knowing someone who wore shades as dark as night for the last few millennia, that he recognized the minute tics to Crowley’s brows; eyeing the seat Aziraphale was in, before darting away and skittering towards the empty seats around him. 

It was at once, easy to think that, of course they shouldn’t go sitting together so closely on the bus, _as what would either side say?_ , as it was to think it preposterous for Crowley to sit anywhere else. 

He was warring with himself, unknowing if either side would seek them out in the next twenty minutes it would take to get where they were going, _oh where were they going at any rate?_ , as it was to not care in the slightest so long as Crowley sank into the seat next to him. 

Aziraphale barely had thought as much before he found himself looking purposefully at Crowley and slightly tilting his head towards the seat, and he could practically see the slight ease in tension around the other’s jawline as he no doubt quit clenching his teeth. 

Aziraphale felt the worn seating dip with the other’s weight next to him as they sat silent, both contemplative before he realized the other had sat, but was no less relaxed.  
Crowley’s jawline bowed where the muscle was taught from clenched jaw, lips moderately pursed from the effort, and his body taut as a bow string.  
Just as Aziraphale began to speak he noticed Crowley’s hand twitch before slowly reaching towards him. 

Giving up the pretense of not looking at him, Aziraphale’s head tilted, looking at the proffered hand, tilted up, its fingers lax despite the tightly coiled body they were attached too, and the head of auburn hair tilted slightly down, as if Crowley couldn’t bare to look at him and had only had the capacity to raise one limb, and he’d chosen to reach out.  
He found himself seized at once with the realization, that perhaps it’s all the energy the other did have. 

He took in the dried sweat mussed hair, soot covered appearance, and thought of this demon, this Fallen, this man asking for insurance, for help, for companionship and possibly a million other little things by them all throughout the years, and getting turned down each time. 

Crowley was full of grandiose gestures; typically complete with wild hand motions, flailing about and somehow managing to land more on the side of endearing and quirky rather than ridiculous and inane; however, it seemed that whatever had been fueling him had slowly been cutting away strings until this was all that was left.

Belatedly Aziraphale thought that he had been given a sword, never scissors, but that didn’t seem to have stopped him from cutting regardless. 

He saw the offered hand twitch briefly at his blatant scrutiny before the hand began to close slowly, rotating gently towards Crowley’s thigh, as if for security.  
He recalled telling the other that he had gone to fast at one point. Though now Aziraphale could only look back on the last several millennia and reach the conclusion that it had indeed been one long, slow journey to this. 

And regardless if either Heaven or Hell’s staff disapproved of them sitting together, nor him offering comfort to a demon, surely it would be crueler to refuse? If anything, this was practically his duty, to help that is. 

He had always been good at rationalizing things in their favor previously, and it seemed that nothing should change in that regard.

He reached out, hand reaching around the other’s wrist, wrapping a now clenched hand in his own. 

At the same time, he noticed Crowley’s legs stiffen further, his feet inching closer together and back dipping more; effectively causing the other to curl in on himself, barely able to make out the sharp intake of air and the instantaneous creasing to the other’s eyes, obviously clenching behind black shades. 

Aziraphale felt a sharp pang as he recalled Crowley’s posture at the revelation that his car was gone and realized he quite disliked seeing his friend in such a state, nor any similar. 

His hand tightened further around the long fingers in his grasp, pulling the willing arm closer, and resting his other hand atop the other’s forearm. 

“There, there dearest.” 

Crowley’s entire body jerked suddenly, and if his arm wasn't so thoroughly entangled in Aziraphale’s own, he might have jolted it back to himself. 

“D -,” Crowley’s body curled more into itself, “don’t. Not - can’t,” he cut himself off, arm attempting to pull from Aziraphale in earnest now, before the angel locked his hold, gently, but firmly tugging the others towards him.

“Hush now, until our stop then.” Aziraphale murmured, feeling the other’s shiver and holding the lanky curled arm with its lankier owner, curled inward as if trying to ball into coils he was not in the proper form for. 

Aziraphale was tempted; a feeling he usually laid blame for at Crowley’s feet, but would admit, if only to himself, came from a personal desire to soothe at this point, to pat the other’s head and push the hair matted around his temples into some semblance of its normal style, for comfort of course, before he relegated himself to patting the other’s arm in three quick motions before falling still the remainder of the way.

The bus lurched forward before toddering back at each stop, and so too did their bodies sway with the great vehicle. Finding themselves tilting left or right with its wide turns, until Aziraphale was reminded of a multitude of reasons as to why he was not a fan of public transportation. 

Finally, they reached their stop and Crowley was jerkily trying to rise as best he could with one arm held captive, brows and forehead twitching madly, a subtle thing, as Aziraphale could imagine his eyes were clamoring about the bus again, ready for an escape more suited to prey than the predator Crowley had been formed to be.  
Aziraphale rose with the other before releasing the arm he’d held and following him out.

Crowley didn’t look back before hurriedly making his way down the street to his house, Aziraphale trailing behind him, albeit somewhat nervously.  
Then he tried the door with his keys approximately three times, each fumbling attempt with a shakiness to the other’s hand that Aziraphale had never associated with the other, before he dropped them resolutely and with a snap of his fingers the doors opened for them. 

When he tried to continue forward still without look at him still, Aziraphale reached out for the same hand he’d held not ten minutes prior.  
“Crowley…” he stated imploringly, as the other finally turned his hunched form to look at him. 

Face tauter than Aziraphale had ever seen, Crowley snapped back at him: “ _What?!_ What angel? What do you want now, because I…,” his voice cracked as did his anger and he winced in upset at himself or embarrassment for the situation, Aziraphale wasn’t quite able to discern.

“Dearest, I’m just trying to catch up.” he states primly, “Come now, what has you in such a state?” 

He finds himself leading through the other’s home, although he’d never been given the tour, and finds that they path had led to him naturally dragging the other to a living room lush with plant life and a grandiose couch. _Very Crowley_ , he thinks.

After a minute of both settling on the couch, and Crowley finding a means to sit ramrod straight and yet still seem curled inwards, a far cry from his usual sprawl, and as far away as the couch and Aziraphale grip on his arm would allow, the blonde found himself nudging the other with a squeeze to his newly acquired captive third limb.

Crowley eventually seems to lose whatever resolve he had, heaving a shuddering sigh before practically folding in on himself, head nearly dipping down to his knees, heels tucked nearly under the couch. 

“It...Aziraphale,” Crowley trailed off as if unsure of how to begin, because how do you begin to explain to someone thoughts that you can’t even form into coherent thought patterns, much less words? Aziraphale has yet to learn and he’s well aware that of the two, he does more talking. It seems only fair that Crowley is at more of a loss than even he.  
His demon forged on, stuttering through his own haze of muddled thoughts, and a seemingly overwhelming sense of displacement, head slowly rising to meet Aziraphale’s face.

“You were - I mean, I had thought - that is,” he swallowed heavily, “ _youweregoneAziraphale._ ” He finished in a furious hoarse whisper that seemed to absorb the oxygen around them.

The air was charged in static, as if one of them had frozen time and Aziraphale found his thoughts muddled again, as if trudging through water.

The other’s teeth were grit in such a way that Aziraphale could see the unevenness to them, the one on his bottom right that went awry in it’s build and tilted away from the rest, and if that didn’t endear him more to this man in front of him, Aziraphale would somehow damn himself.  
It hit him then. 

He recalled the auburn man in all black at the bar drowning himself in bottles, less than hours before the end of the world, but looking as if it has already ended for him. He recalled the look of awe on his fiendish friend’s face at his appearance, blatant even when he was looking through a hazy veil of discorporation. He recalled the way the madmen had driven through fire in a burning car as if driven by a primal force to get somewhere, to himself Aziraphale belatedly realized, and how the demon had immediately shuffled over to help before realizing what had become of his most prized possession and had to have a moment to himself.

“...the friend you’d mentioned.” He stated with a tone of realization. Realization that it was him.

He received a suspiciously watery sounding laugh in return.

“Yeah.” he seemed to force out, “You.”

“Oh Crowley.” Aziraphale said with feeling, voice in a tone of wonder as his mind reeled. “You _do_ go fast, don’t you?”

There was a commiserable keen next to him, quickly cut off when Crowley crumpled again, arm going limp in his hold as the other legs curled underneath him.

“I’m sorry A-”

“Hush that, you silly serpent,” he murmured fondly squeezing the hand he held and reaching for the other’s face to tilt it towards him. “You do, you know. Go fast that is. Terribly at odds with my pace.” 

Aziraphale found himself brushing his knuckles softly over the jawline he’d been touching, his softer, admittingly rounded white hands brushing achingly gentle over black streaked darkened skin and clenched tight skin. 

Perfectly at odds with one another, but in a sense, so perfectly contrasting as well.

“But I supposed you always been slowing your steps for my shorter legs then, haven’t you now? Not quite my fault that this body was built shorter than yours, to be fair.” Crowley’s brows creased again, head tilting to face his own, and Aziraphale found his hands inching towards those every-present shades pausing only the slighted for the other to give the smallest of nods in acquiesce for their removal and - oh. 

Oh.

There was so much warring in that expression, Aziraphale could have written a book over the pages of confusion and uncertainty in those eyes. He found something in himself choke at the look of hope in them because he could feel hope. He was an angel. He should be able to feel that feeling envelope him anytime he was around it, so why - 

Once more with feeling: 

_Oh._

“Crowley.” He stated, stunned.

“Uh ...angel?” A wry smile broke out on the face he was cradling, before vanishing as Aziraphale leaned in to rest his forehead on the others, scooting closer so they were both more comfortable with this change. 

Crowley’s body language was hesitant, but now that Azirphale bothered to feel him, now that he had opened up a channel he had become so complacent with, that he no longer even noticed, he could...oh he could feel it.

A wash of love he’d not felt since the presence of the Almighty Herself had graced him with Her Light all those years ago. 

It was so strong Aziraphale found himself agape at the potency of it, breathe stolen from his pseudo lungs and heart stuttering at the weight of it. The crescendo of its depth, the calamity of its meaning, his soul twisting in a mass of near disbelief and awe at the accompanying emotions of faith, longing, and the piteously small trendle of hope snaking through it all.

He breathed out slowly. 

“Oh darling. Your love is _so_ very strong.” 

At the word ‘love’ Crowley seemed to flinch in on himself before Aziraphale could see the beginning of tears well in the serpent’s eyes as they fettered shut hard.  
“Demon’s don’t feel love angel. Remember?” He croaked out, body shuddering, and not in a moment Aziraphale realized the poor thing was running on empty, as were they both, but that he was fairly certain the other was - 

“It’s okay to cry, Crowley.”

Another wet laugh choked out harshly and the other’s head began shaking against Aziraphale’s own.  
“Demon’s don’t cry either.” 

There was a pause as they both did not mention the wetness pooling around his eyes, and Aziraphale looked at the bloodshot veins making their home in exhausted but otherwise gold eyes.

Aziraphale decided to give in to his earlier urge and grabbed the back of Crowley’s head gently carding his fingers through hair singed from fire and thickened from soot and guiding it to rest against Aziraphale shoulder. 

The body in front of him shuddered violently as his other arm reached behind to pull Crowley closer, because he needed it, because he needed it: the both of them. They were alive, and Crowley hadn’t known. There was love, and Aziraphale hadn’t realized. 

Crowley was chilled to the touch despite the sky-light above them pooling sunlight onto auburn hair causing it to glint like the fire that had tried to ravage it while ensconced in a car earlier, and Aziraphale wanted to offer warmth, to offer his own love and tugged him closer still. After a scant few minutes he found himself with a lap full of a loose-limbed six-foot and one-inch mess of a man.

“If I recall, you were a Fallen first.” 

He continued, maneuvering liquid limbs into an arrangement that, to be fair, did not seem very probable for the other. Legs splayed on either side of Aziraphale, knees folded around his middle, and arms and elbows trapped against the angels’s chest, but seemed to be possible all the same. 

“A serpent second,” he added hushedly, feeling this moment as a sacred one and unwilling to break it, speaking despite the wetness he felt seeping through his vest and shirt to his skin, “and it’s a good thing Hell won’t claim you as a demon now, wouldn’t you say?” 

Aziraphale tucked Crowley’s head under his own, not giving up having his fingers tangled in the other’s mess of a haircut, while the other firmly grasped at the lithe body in his lap, as if to stop it from quaking. 

And together they rocked as if still on the musty London bus, but sat as a mass of tangled limbs atop one another, knowing that the next stop would be theirs as well.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what happened, one minute I'm wrapping up grad school waiting on my oral exam, and then next Good Omens got a TV series, and my free-time was once again forfeit. I regret nothing. 
> 
> I can't shake the thought of Crowley having a few 'bugs' from being the first Fallen, and him not being what we're given to think of as demons.


End file.
